To Tiber and Numicia’s sacred fountain. Our king is sending presents, little tokens Of former fortune, relics and remainders Rescued from Troy on fire. This gold Anchises Used when he poured libations at the altar, This sceptre and this diadem were Priam’s, Who wore these robes, the work of Trojan women, When he gave laws to the assembled people.” Latinus, at his words, was grave; he held His gaze downcast, but his anxious eyes kept turning. It was not the crimson color, nor Priam’s sceptre, That moved him so; he was thinking of his daughter, Her marriage, and the oracle of Faunus. This one might be the man, this stranger, coming From a far-off land, might be his son, a ruler Called, by the fates, to share his power, to father Illustrious children, masters of the world. He spoke, in gladness:--“Bless, O gods, our project And your own augury! It will be given, O Trojan, as you ask. I do not scorn The gifts you bring. Never, while I am ruling, Shall you be lacking fruitful land in plenty, And Troy’s abundance shall be yours forever. And as for king Aeneas, if you bring us True tidings of his longing for our friendship, Our hospitality, and our alliance, Let him appear in person, let him never Shrink from our friendly gaze. To King Latinus It will be pact and covenant to meet him, To take him by the hand. Give him my answer: I have a daughter; prodigies from heaven Innumerable, and my father’s warnings, Delivered through his oracle, forbid me To give my daughter to a native husband. They tell me that my son-to-be is coming From foreign shores, to raise our name to heaven. Such is the prophecy they make for Latium. Your king, I think, must be the man they promise, If I have any sense of divination. He is the one I choose.” And he brought horses, The pick of his stables, out of all his hundreds, Assigned them to the Trojans in due order, Swift runners they were, caparisoned with crimson, With saddle-cloths of gold, and golden halters Swung at their shoulders, and the bits were golden. He chose a chariot for Aeneas; with it Two stallions breathing fire, immortal horses Sprung from the stock which Circe, in her cunning, Had stolen from the sun, her father, and bred them To her own mares. The Trojans rode back happy With gifts and peace and welcome from Latinus.